


A Beautiful Mind

by eskimita



Category: Criminal Minds, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Fighting, Crossover, Lestrade kicks ass, M/M, Schizophrenia, Spencer doesn't know what he wants, Strained family relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eskimita/pseuds/eskimita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Prentiss's death, Spencer Reid didn't know what to do with himself, so he ran. Pointed in the direction of England and estranged family by his mother, Spencer set off on an adventure to find himself and the answers to his questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not Brit-picked, as I am not from England. If someone would like to Brit-pick this story, feel free.  
> While this story will refer to moments in Criminal Minds, up to and including season six, it is a Sherlock-centric story, based between season one and season two. Minimal knowledge of Criminal Minds is required.  
> I am, very obviously, not a serial killer, so any of the murders depicted here will not necessarily be accurate in their descriptions, merely the vague ideas of a somewhat twisted mind.  
> I am also a stay-at-home mother of a toddler and a newborn, therefore, I am usually tight on time for writing. This story has the longest chapters of any of my stories, so it will be updated slower than the others.  
> This story is un-Betaed. If someone would like to be my beta/encourager/person who kicks my butt into gear, please let me know and we will talk about it. I would love it if someone were to push me along to keep writing this story.
> 
> Obviously, I do not own Sherlock or Criminal Minds, nor do I make any monetary profit from the writing of this story. This story is merely one of my many attempts to resist shooting my walls.
> 
> “Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." Cyril Connolly said that, and it is something I strive to write by. My stories are to please me, first and foremost. If they happen to please other people, great. If they don't, so be it. Complaints will be dissected and placed in jars in formaldehyde to be studied at a further date.

Spencer Reid couldn't pinpoint the case that had brought him to this moment, on his last day of a two week vacation to Vegas, sitting across from his mother in the hospital she’d been living in for ten years. All that he could say for certain was that he was growing weary and jaded, more so than he had been before he’d joined the BAU when he was 22. He knew that what he and his team did, profiling the baddest of the bad (as Garcia would say) was something worth doing, but when a person was so immersed in the dark thoughts and deeds of others without a break, they lost focus. It had been coming for Spencer since shortly after Hotch had buried his wife. The mess with Foyet had confirmed Spencer’s working theory that he would never be able to successfully have a relationship while he worked in the BAU and began his questioning. Now, suffering from headaches that his doctor believed were psychosomatic, he was wondering if the BAU had ever been the right decision for him. Shortly after his diagnosis, Spencer had decided to take a sabbatical from the BAU, a year off to figure out if he really wanted to return to the life he’d been living or if he wanted to find something else to do. Prentiss’s death had cemented his decision to take a break. Losing a coworker and friend like that, after what had happened with Gideon and Elle, Spencer wasn’t sure he could do it again. They’d all put their lives on the line so many times, put their families at risk. Sometimes Spencer just wasn’t sure it was worth it. Playing chess with his mother was one of those times that made him question everything. She was the only family he had and the thought of losing her was enough to make him question everything. It was the subject of family that had triggered Diane’s ranting lecture today.

“Now Spencer, dear, you have to understand, before I tell you anything more, that I grew up in a world much different than it is today. Someone like me wasn’t accepted in society, we were considered too different, too dangerous. I was lucky that I came from a family of some affluence. It was the only thing that allowed me to go to college, and to continue my education afterwards, and even teach. The disease, though, cost me my family. Any family of the peerage in England couldn’t have a sick family member, it just wasn’t done. If they’d hospitalized me in England, it would have been found out at some point. It would have ruined them. My parents sent me to America when I was a teenager, gave me enough money to get through my education, and never looked back. They couldn’t acknowledge that there was someone in the family who was sick, it would have ruined the family reputation. My sister and I stayed in contact for a while, but after you were born, I got so caught up in raising you, and she had two boys of her own. We both were too busy to write anymore.” Diane Reid looked up from the chessboard spread in front of her and reached a hand out to tuck her son’s hair behind his ear. “Look at you. I am so proud of you. Sitting across from me, twenty nine years old, with so many accomplishments already. I wanted to tell you about my family sooner than now, but time just hasn’t allowed for it. I wanted you to know them, growing up. I wrote to my sister a few times while I was pregnant with you about the possibility of visiting, so that you could know your cousins. I always wanted you to have a big family. It just wasn’t in the cards though. But now, you’re successful. And I know you took a sabbatical from the FBI. I want you to do something for me, Spencer. I want you to go to London and find your cousins. I have all of the letters from my sister in my journal,” she handed him a leatherbound book with a stack of letters sticking out of it, “I want you to go and find Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Get to know your cousins. Meet your family. Do something normal just once. Let that big brain of yours rest. Your team can find the serial killers just as well while you take your break.”

Spencer reached out a hand and grasped on to the faded leather journal, pulling it into his lap and tracing the edges of the browning papers with one finger. He looked down at it with a contemplative look on his face before looking up at his mother, wetting his lips with his tongue before he started talking. “You want me to go to London and introduce myself to two strangers who may not even know about me? Mom, when I took my sabbatical, it was so I could reevaluate if I still wanted to work for the BAU. not so I could meet some family members on the other side of the ocean.” He took a deep breath, looking back down at the journal. Somehow, sitting in that chair, he managed to make himself look much smaller and younger than he was, almost vulnerable. After a moment of thought, he nodded slowly, pulling the journal up to his chest. “If you want, I’ll go to London. Are you sure you want me to do this though? They abandoned you. Even if your sister did write to you, she still didn’t come visit you. They sent you off to another country so that they could ignore that you were sick. They could have done something. They could have found someone who could help you in the home, so you wouldn’t have had to go to a hospital. They didn’t have to send you away. Not when you were that young. Your sister might not have even told her sons about me anyhow. I might be going over there and making a complete fool out of myself, and nothing will come of it. They might not even consider me family after they’ve let me have my say, if they do. There aren’t enough statistics in family estrangement to predict a positive or negative outcome.”

Diane reached over and covered Spencer’s hand with one of her own, squeezing it gently. A quiet sigh escaped her as she gazed sadly into his eyes. Moments like these, on her good days, Spencer could still see the woman who had read 15th century literature to him when he was a newborn, the brilliant woman who had raised him by herself for all those years. It was something that made him both happy and sad at the same time. “I didn’t do you any favors, raising you up as isolated as I have. All I ever wanted for you was for you to learn, to be able to know anything you wanted to know. But I never gave you a family to love you. I know that you know I love you, but it’s different, a mother’s love and the love of other family members. You could have been friends with your cousins, and maybe you would’ve been less lonely if you were. You were such an isolated child, separated from your age group by your brilliance and separated from your peers by your age. I just want you to have someone to reach out to before it’s too late, Spencer. Please, go to London. Meet your cousins. If you absolutely hate them, you don’t have to stay in contact with them. But I would like to know that you met them, that they know you exist and you know they exist. Please, just do this one favor for me.”

Nodding, Spencer glanced up at the clock and stood reluctantly. “I should get going now. My flight back to DC leaves in a few hours. I promise that I’ll go to London and look for my cousins because you asked me to, but I can’t promise to keep in contact with them. You know that people don’t really understand me, or like me.” He drew his mother into a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder, just taking the moment to savor their closeness. His mother was the only person he touched without discomfort, she had always been the only person that he willingly hugged. “You never once made me feel like I was missing out on having a family, mom. You are my family. You always made sure that I knew I was loved. I will never forget that.” He kissed her cheek before pulling away and giving her an awkward wave. As he left, he pressed the journal to his chest and clutched at the strap on his messenger bag, using them as a shield, remnants of his childhood insecurities and determination to protect himself.

Diane watched her son leave with a sad smile before pulling her sweater tight against her chest and leaving the day room. She’d been working up the courage to tell Spencer about his family for years. Now that she was getting worse, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Her boy deserved to know that he had family out there before her mind completely slipped away from her. He deserved to know that he wouldn’t be alone in the world anymore. She just hoped that this trip to London would end well for him. Maybe her sister’s boys would be exactly what her Spencer needed. He’d always been such a lonely child, pushed to it by his brilliance and his age difference with his peers. Diane’s biggest hope was that her sister’s children, probably every bit as brilliant as Spencer, would help him to build a real and lasting relationship with someone outside of his team and their small family.

* * *

“I don’t know what else to tell you, boy genius.” Spencer could hear clicking on the other end of the phone and could practically picture Garcia tapping away at her keyboard. He twisted a pen through his fingers while he waited for her to continue, staring down at his finished crossword. “Mycroft Holmes is a low-level government official, he hasn’t made the news, doesn’t make waves at work. He’s single, never even been in a serious relationship from what I can tell. The guy’s a workaholic. I can’t find any significant relationships, no friends of any sort. The guy works and that’s it. The only thing unusual in any way is that his IQ is off the charts, kind of like yours. Now Sherlock, he’s a bit more interesting. A few months older than you, dropped out of college, showed up in London. Some of his college professors classified him as a high-functioning sociopath, but I think most of it was his brilliance not fitting in with the rest of the university. He was addicted to cocaine for a while, but then he got clean. Now he’s a consulting detective, which is just about the coolest job I’ve ever heard of and if I ever decide to switch careers I’m going to look into this. Um, he’s worked a few cases for New Scotland Yard over the years, mostly with a… Detective Inspector Lestrade. Looks like he’s stopped a few murders… solved a few serial cases. Um, he made sure a British citizen got the death penalty in Florida a few years back. There’s nothing more, really. He hangs out at St. Bartholomew's Hospital a lot, but he isn’t a doctor. Can’t find any records of him ever marrying. Seems both of the brothers are more solitary than not.” Even though it was unspoken, Spencer could still see the comparison between him and his cousins that Garcia had drawn. “Sorry I couldn’t do more for you, my wonder boy, but there really wasn’t that much to find.” She paused and Spencer could hear her thinking, could almost see the small smile that she probably wore while she looked at all of the information she had found for him. “Why are you asking me about these two? Would it happen to have anything to do with your impromptu trip to London? Oh, are you planning to pursue one of them for a relationship? Did our boy genius finally figure that he should find someone on his level intellectually?”

“Garcia,” Spencer gave an awkward laugh, running a hand through his hair. “They’re my cousins. My mom told me about them when I went to see her the last time. She gave me a journal with letters between her and their mom. I guess she wanted me to meet them, to see that I have other family members out there.” He ran his finger across the top of his coffee mug, looking out over the view he had of the Thames from his hotel room. Curled up in the chair by the small table the hotel provided, he could almost forget that he was here for such an uncomfortable reason. There were so many good universities in England, after all. Maybe he’d continue his psychology degree on to a masters or a doctorate. Sighing, he continued to speak. “I don’t know what to do, Garcia. Our grandparents just shipped my mom off to America. They didn’t even care that they were abandoning a sick teenager. What if… If they were raised with that belief, that it’s a blight on the family to have someone sick associated with them, then they aren’t going to want to have anything to do with me. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. What do I do? What do I say?”

Garcia moaned mournfully, making Spencer smile slightly. If he was there, he was sure she would be doing her best to pull him into a hug right now, like a hug would fix everything. “Spencer, just be yourself. If they’re anything like you and your mom, they’re probably absolutely brilliant. The three of you are going to get along just fine. Don’t worry about it. If their mom kept writing letters to Diane, it’s because she holds some amount of love for her sister. That love would’ve been passed to her children. I’m sure of it.” She switched gears, her bubbly personality returning. Even with his intellect, Spencer had absolutely no idea how Garcia could change subjects as easily as she blinked. “Now, tell me what you’ve already done. Have you seen the queen? Did you go to a high tea anywhere? What have you gotten me? I need you to take a picture of a police call box. Are they really blue? Did you watch the changing of the Guard? Have you already started getting your five hundredth degree or are you waiting until after the cousin talk is over?”

Relieved from his friend’s reassurances, Spencer chuckled and relaxed in his chair, beginning to tell Garcia about his trip so far. He’d only been in London for three days and hadn’t yet bothered to look for his cousins. Now, though, with Garcia’s reassurances, he started thinking about maybe visiting them, making the effort. Perhaps Sherlock, first, since they were closer in age and Garcia had managed to find his address. If all else failed, he could act like he was going to hire Sherlock as a detective. Maybe, if this went well, he would stay in London for the rest of his sabbatical year, finishing his degrees. The universities here were just as good as the ones he had access to in the states, after all. And finishing his degrees would be so much easier without having to work around cases. He took a deep breath and nodded to himself. He could do this. His mother wanted him to meet her side of the family, and he would. It wasn’t like he couldn’t go back to DC if he needed to. There was nothing keeping him in London any longer than he wanted to be there. He could leave, if everything went poorly. Uncapping his pen, Spencer scrawled down the address that Garcia had given him for Sherlock and consulted the map of London. If he took a cab, he could be there in half an hour. Once he finished his phone call to Garcia he would go. He had a cousin to meet.

* * *

“Why on earth is the FBI searching for us?” Mycroft Holmes stared at the report sitting on his desk, brow furrowed. He’d been interrupted in an important meeting with some of his French connections, only for Anthea to hand him a red folder with a print out of recent searches done on himself and Sherlock. Searches that had originated in Quantico, Virginia, from the J. Edgar Hoover building. Mycroft flipped the page, reading the IP address that his people had traced the searches to and the brief bio on the woman the computer belonged to. He’d never heard of anyone named Penelope Garcia in his life. He’d never even had contact with the FBI. Any of his American dealings went through the CIA. He’d never bothered with the other agencies. Picking up his phone, Mycroft called Anthea, standing up to pace. “Get me everything you can find on this Penelope Garcia and anyone in the FBI that she has contact with who might be in London. I want to know why the American government is showing interest in Sherlock and I want to know now.” Satisfied that his assistant would do what he had asked of her, Mycroft returned to his desk, checking on his brother’s location. Still at Baker Street, as far as the CCTV cameras could tell. Good. That meant he wasn’t getting into too much trouble. Perhaps the boy would behave himself long enough for Mycroft to get to the bottom of this FBI issue. He highly doubted it, but he could hope. If it would do him any good, he’d text Sherlock’s Doctor Watson to ensure that his brother didn’t leave their flat, but he hardly fancied another pointless row with his childish brother. No, best to simply keep his eyes on the cameras and ensure that Sherlock stayed where he could see him. If Anthea worked quickly, he might even have this whole business taken care of before supper. Pushing the thoughts of Sherlock and the FBI to the back of his mind, Mycroft returned to his work. Sometimes it was so utterly tedious, running the British government.

It was less than an hour later when Anthea returned, placing another folder on his desk and walking right back out, typing away on her Blackberry. Mycroft finished his phone call before pulling the folder in front of him, reading it with a small frown. When he finished reading the file, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers and pressing them against his lips. Spencer Reid, the only person who worked for the FBI in connection with Penelope Garcia who was also in London. The name rang a bell for some reason, but Mycroft couldn’t place it. He closed his eyes, tracing through all the paths he could think of, trying to remember the name. He’d heard it before, years ago. Years. At home. Mummy had told him about it. That was it! Mummy had told him about her estranged sister, Diane. They were writing letters back and forth. It was a few months after Sherlock was born, Mycroft could remember now. Mummy told him that he had a cousin, a Spencer Reid, who would probably come to visit him at some point. Nothing had come of it, over the years. In fact, Mummy had stopped writing to her sister. At the time, Mycroft had thought it was because writing to a sister across the ocean was difficult to do when raising two children, and he’d forgotten about the incident completely. Closing the folder, Mycroft stood and grabbed his umbrella. Now that he knew who it was searching for information about his brother, he could handle it without too much trouble. For now, it was time to go home and eat a good serving of Shepherd’s Pie. It’d been a long day of running the country, after all. His cousin could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Spencer licked his lip nervously as he stared up at the building in front of him, sizing it up. This was the address Garcia had found on his cousin’s website, the place that Sherlock worked out of. From outward appearances, it was just a normal row house, like all of the other row houses on Baker street. The knocker was slightly awry, rather than hanging down straight. He looked at the door for a moment before stepping up and grasping the knocker, rapping on the door a few times. Returning the knocker to it’s previously crooked position, Spencer took a deep breath to steel himself. If he didn’t do this today, he never would, and he knew how much his mother wanted him to meet these cousins of his. He’d keep his promise, no matter how uncomfortable the idea made him feel. The door opening broke Spencer from his thoughts and he looked down at the woman standing in front of him, offering him a gentle smile.

“Oh, hello dear. You must be one of Sherlock’s clients.” The woman looked up at him, eyes sparkling in minor curiosity, looking him over. Spencer had a feeling that she was sizing him up, taking in as much about him as she could. Finally, she stepped aside and allowed him to enter the building, gesturing towards the stairs. “You go right on up, I don’t believe he’s busy with anything right now. Go on then. Just leave your jacket on the hook here and head up.” Moving towards the door of 221A, she paused, one hand grabbing the banister on the stairs, the other hand waving about the drying towel she’d carried with her to answer the door, like she was in the middle of drying dishes when she’d heard his knocking. “Would you like a cup of tea? Just this once, of course, I’m not Sherlock’s housekeeper, just his landlady.”

Slightly taken aback by the woman, Spencer clutched the strap of his bag tighter than he’d had it before, the rough canvas digging into his palm a bit. Even with years of being around JJ and Garcia, Spencer didn’t think he would ever get used to women noticing him, or talking to him beyond what was absolutely necessary. It had been years since someone outside of the BAU had taken the time to size him up, to profile him in some way. Quite frankly, it was extremely unnerving and it made Spencer wish he’d been able to bring his gun to England with him. All of a sudden, not having the small protection of his firearm left him feeling vulnerable, more so than he had since he’d passed his qualification. “Um, no thank you. I’m just here to talk. I’ll just,” he gestured towards the stairs, sidestepping the landlady quickly and placing his foot on the bottom step. “Thank you for directing me, ma’am. I’ll go up now.”

Before she could say any more, Spencer darted up the stairs, slowing down at the landing and taking a steadying breath. When he felt ready to face his cousin, he rapped as quietly as he could at the door, his knuckles just barely brushing up against the green wood. He was more nervous than he cared to admit, which was silly, when he thought about it. He faced down killers on a daily basis without ever once being afraid, but when he came face to face with a chance to meet a family member, he could hardly even knock on the door because he was so petrified. Just as he was beginning to think he shouldn’t have come here, the door was opened by a shorter man with an unassuming look about him. Taking a moment to observe the man, Spencer took in the way he was standing, the hand that loosely gripped the doorknob even as his other hand moved around to his back. This man was armed, then, and highly trained if his stance was anything to go by. He was also protective of his flat, and his flatmate as well, Spencer would guess. This man wasn’t his cousin, he could tell that just by glancing at his facial structure. Spencer smiled sheepishly. “I’m, uh, here to see Sherlock Holmes?”

The other man took in his appearance, probably gauging his threat level, and nodded. “Right. He’s inside. Come on, then.” He stepped aside and let Spencer move into the flat, gesturing towards the couch and moving his other hand away from the gun that Spencer could now see the outline of, tucked into his pants. “Sherlock, come out of there. You have a client.” He opened the sliding door to the kitchen, grabbing the arm of a tall man with curly hair. Spencer watched awkwardly, sitting on the edge of the couch. This scene seemed far too intimate for him to bear witness to, even if the actions were just common ones. He took a minute to look around the flat before turning back to watch the other two men. He’d noticed the bulletholes in the wall behind him, and the painted smile, with some amusement. He’d thought of shooting the wall of his apartment a couple of times, but he’d always refrained. Focusing back on the men in front of him, Spencer smiled sheepishly. He could see the relation to Sherlock, now, just looking at him. They were both tall, both extraordinarily thin. As he finished his observations, he heard the shorter man start speaking. “You can’t just spend all your time exploding eyeballs in the microwave. You need to do your job too. Come on now, sit down.”

The taller man rolled his eyes before looking up at Spencer, fingers flexing at his side as he analyzed Spencer’s appearance, taking note of everything he could see about him. He sat down in his chair, eyes still on Spencer as he pulled his legs up under him and started drumming his fingers on his knees. “You aren’t a client. No. You’re nervous, but not distressed. The majority of my clients are distressed. You aren’t from London, either. Your shoes don’t show any traces of the rain we got last week.” He frowned and stared at Spencer’s face. like it was a puzzle to figure out. Spencer spared a moment to wonder if he was seeing the similarities that Spencer had, the vague family resemblance that came from being cousins. “Who are you? I can’t think of any reason why an American would be here to see me. I haven’t done anything in America for quite a few years, and the last time I was there, I know I didn’t run into you anywhere. I never forget anything.”

Spencer ran his fingers along the rough canvas strap of his bag before giving half a nod, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. If he was going to do this, he might as well jump in feet first. “You’ve never met me before. There’s really no reason for you to know who I am at all. My name is Dr. Spencer Reid. I, um…” He swallowed and tried to think of what he wanted to say to this man who was supposed to be his cousin. Everyone on the team had always said that he was awful at making personal connections. This was just confirming that theory. “I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit for the FBI. And I’m your cousin.” Pulling his mom’s journal and letters out of his bag, he held them out to Sherlock who took them with a distrustful eyebrow raised. Spencer released the journal and grabbed his bag again, holding it up against his chest. “My mother is your mother’s sister. She was sent to America when she was a teenager because she has schizophrenia. Your mother wrote to her over the years until shortly after you and I were both born. It’s all in there. The letters your mother wrote, copies of the ones my mom sent, everything.” He took a deep breath and watched as Sherlock flipped through the journal and letters, stopping to read through one occasionally before moving on to the next. “My mother asked me to come to England to meet you and your brother. She,” he chuckled quietly, “She wanted me to have the family she didn’t have.”

“You expect me to believe this, with no proof other than the word of a perfect stranger and a few letters that look to have been written thirty years ago?” Sherlock looked up at Spencer and gave him a slight smile, popping up to sit on the back of his chair. “Most people would probably think you’re crazy for saying something like that, without any further proof. Especially considering your mother’s schizophrenia.” He tossed down the journal, watching it bounce on the seat. “I am not most people. Now, let’s talk this out.” Fingers steepling under his chin, Sherlock’s eyes practically glittered with excitement. “My grandparents were extremely set in their ways. The Whitshire family was a respected one, and when my grandfather took over as head of house, he did everything in his power to increase their influence. Given the general attitude at the time towards people who were different, he would have felt he had no choice but to hide it, if one of his family members was schizophrenic. I never did like the man, really. He was dull and boring.”

“Dull and boring always were the things that made you rebel, Sherlock.” All three of the men sitting in the room turned to the door, staring at the man who had just walked into the room. Spencer took a careful moment to watch him, finding the few faint familial resemblances within them. Sherlock and Spencer looked more alike than Mycroft and either of them did. Mycroft smirked and set his umbrella against the wall inside the door and moved to stand between Sherlock’s chair and the couch. “Hello little brother.” Turning to Spencer, he sized him up before nodding. “Cousin. I must say I wasn’t expecting to ever meet you. Of course, until your friend Penelope Garcia did a search on us, I had forgotten about the letters Mummy used to write to your mother. It was understandable that I forgot, I was only seven.” Glancing at his brother’s flatmate, seeing the look of disbelief written on his face, Mycroft snorted. “Oh, do shut your mouth, Doctor Watson. You didn’t truly think that Sherlock and I were the only progeny of our family, did you? Honestly.” Mycroft turned back to Sherlock and pursed his lip in disappointment, idly waving his hand at him. “Do sit correctly, Sherlock. You’ll ruin your back sitting like that.” He walked over to the couch and sat down next to Spencer, glancing over at him. “I assume your mother gave you something to prove her claims. Sherlock, give it to me now. I would like to read it.” He held his hand out to his brother and waited for Sherlock to hand him the journal, flipping through the letters and humming in idle interest occasionally. When he was finished reading through all of the correspondence, he handed the journal back to Spencer. Before he could continue speaking, the door downstairs slammed and the sounds of loud thumping came from the stairs.

“Ah! The game is afoot!” Spencer’s gaze shot away from the door and to Sherlock, watching as his cousin jumped up from his chair and spun around the room dramatically before looking over at his companion. “Get your coat, John! Lestrade is about to walk in that door and tell us that there’s been another murder and that he needs my help.” Whirring back to face the couch, Sherlock grinned like a child, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Cousin, you said that you work for the FBI, didn’t you? You’re coming with us. I’ve never heard of the Behavioral Analysis Unit and I want to learn more. Mycroft, I suppose the family reunion will have to take place later. Maybe you can call Mummy and tell her about it?” Clapping his hands in glee, Sherlock grabbed a purple scarf that matched Spencer’s and wrapped it around his neck, watching the door with anticipation. Spencer turned as well, watching for the man he assumed was about to enter the flat.

The Detective Inspector who entered the flat was not what Spencer expected. He was used to Hotch, who was older but didn’t look like a man in his mid forties. The man in front of him- who Spencer assumed was the DI Lestrade Sherlock had mentioned- was probably the same age as Hotch, but he looked more like Rossi. His hair was an interesting mixture of dirty blonde and platinum, not long, but not short either. He was shorter than Spencer was, but most people (other than his cousins, it seemed) were. It was his eyes, though, that captured Spencer’s attention. Lestrade’s eyes were a warm brown like Hotch’s, and like his boss, they held a glint of hardened authority as he met everyone else’s gaze. His eyes settled on Spencer for a split second longer than they did Mycroft and John, enough time to take in this new person and size him up, before they turned back to Sherlock. That split second was enough to warm something deep in Spencer’s gut, something he hadn’t felt since he’d met Lila. There weren’t many people who Spencer Reid found himself attracted to simply based on their aesthetic appearance, but it seemed that Lestrade was one of them. He watched the other man with open curiosity as he spoke to Sherlock, pleading for his help on his case.

“Sherlock, it’s the third body. You have to come. We’re absolutely stumped on this one. They all have the same stitches, but in a different place. This one had his mouth stitched shut.” Lestrade moved further into the room, standing in front of Sherlock and almost perfectly meeting his gaze as he mentioned something that he knew would tempt Sherlock to help him more than the peculiarities of the bodies. “Anderson’s not on Forensics.” To Spencer, it looked like Lestrade was trying to hold back a laugh as Sherlock’s head shot up. “It’s in Notting Hill, on Ladbroke Grove.” He handed a post-it with the address written on it to Sherlock before turning back to the door. “Oh, and there was a note.” With that, he left.

Spencer guessed, by Sherlock’s reaction to the last of Lestrade’s statements, that Lestrade had said it just to lure Sherlock in, to make sure that he would show up at the crime scene. His cousin was literally vibrating with excitement now, practically dancing as he moved towards the door and grabbed his Belstaff. “Come on John, you heard him. There’s a note! Anderson’s gone! And, best of all,” he whirled around and stared at Spencer, eyes gleaming, “I have a dear family member I get to bring with me rather than Mycroft watching on CCTV to make sure I don’t go astray. Come, Doctor Reid, you can show me what it is exactly the BAU does.” He ran out the door, jumping down the stairs and leaving no choice for John and Spencer but to follow him. Mycroft stood at a more sedate pace, retrieving his umbrella and giving Spencer a wry smirk.

“I do hope your mother knew what she was getting you into when she sent you over here, cousin. Sherlock tends to sweep people up in his live and somehow, he never lets them go.” With that statement, Mycroft left the flat, leaving Spencer and John standing just inside the door. A glance exchanged between them was enough to get both men moving, out the door and on their way to find and follow Sherlock to the crime scene. As he followed John into a cab, Spencer couldn’t help but think about how this was supposed to be a vacation from chasing serial killers. Some things, he supposed, weren’t things he couldn’t escape from that easily.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much shorter than the last, however it is several weeks in the making, and ended at the perfect spot for my purposes.  
> Once more, this is not Brit-picked and I have never been to London.  
> Also, not a serial killer. Not a sociopath. Slightly a bit of a high functioning psychopath. Murder is not my forte.
> 
> I have created a Facebook where updates of my stories may be found. Simply search Eskimita Fanfics.  
> Enjoy!

The ride to Notting Hill was an interesting one for Spencer, nothing like the flights the team took to get to their cases. Rather than a briefing on the case they were headed into, Sherlock instead sat silently, playing with his phone and ignoring the presence of the other people in the cab. Spencer watched him, unsure of what he should do or say. He fidgeted occasionally, unused to the silence. There was never silence when the team was on a case, not until afterwards, when they needed time to digest what they had seen and done. That was the downfall to working for the BAU, they’d seen horrors that most people couldn’t even dream of. Pulling at a loose string on his sweater, he looked up at the other passengers in the cab, taking a minute to assess their reactions to the situation.

Sherlock couldn’t seem to hold still. Even as he typed away on his phone, his legs were bouncing, twitching like it was out of his control. His eyes were lit up with excitement. Spencer had seen that reaction before. Hell, he’d had that reaction. Sherlock was an addict. This, heading to a crime scene that Scotland Yard couldn’t figure out, it was like a drug to him. His every move was that of a man about to get a hit. Spencer had seen those behaviours enough in himself to recognize them in others. Spencer watched him quietly for a few minutes before clearing his throat and speaking up, his voice quiet. “How long have you been using cases as a substitute drug?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up and he slipped his phone into his pocket, staring at Spencer over John’s body. The look on his face made it obvious that he wasn’t used to people deducing anything about him. He frowned before speaking, purposely relaxing back into the leather of the cab. “What makes you assume that I’m using cases as a substitute for anything?” One look at the emotion in his eyes told Spencer more than Sherlock meant to betray, but Spencer ignored it, he’d deal with his cousin’s curiosity later. “What proof do you have that my excitement for a new case is anything more than just that, excitement? Please, cousin, enlighten me.”

Spencer reached his hand up and adjusted the strap of his bag without realizing it as he composed his answer before speaking. “I’ve seen your behaviour before. The minute you spotted Detective Inspector Lestrade’s car on the street, your entire body tensed. You went from relaxed to alert in a split second. When he started describing the case, you licked the corner of your mouth like a juicy steak had just been dropped in front of you. It was such a minute movement that you probably didn’t even realize it yourself. You haven’t stopped fidgeting since I first walked into your flat. Even now, you can’t hold still. You’re jonesing. If this case hadn’t come along, you would have had to find something else, something that could give you the same relief as a hit of heroin could. I’ve seen it in a ton of UnSubs. It really wasn’t that difficult for me to notice.”

 Sherlock stared at Spencer silently for a moment as John gaped at him, muttering a quiet “Brilliant” into the silence. Shrugging, Spencer turned to watch the scenery, prepared to ignore the conversation completely. He probably shouldn’t have asked about Sherlock’s addiction, but Morgan had been telling him for years that sometimes he was worse than a bull in a china shop when it came to tact. Being around people who were supposed to be his family members was throwing him off, ruining his social balance. He may have been used to not profiling the team, but he’d spent years profiling everyone else he’d met. He didn’t expect Sherlock to answer his question with a question of his own. “How long since your last hit?”

A long moment of silence fell over the cab, each of the passengers tense with the thoughts that were running through their minds. As the cab pulled up to the police tape border to the crime scene, Spencer spoke up. “Three weeks.” His hands were clenched into tight fists in his lap. “A member of my team, one of my best friends, died. I couldn’t ignore the temptation. I couldn’t handle the pain. I shot up and when I came down from the high, I flew to Nevada to see my mother. The bottle is probably still sitting on my bathroom sink. I didn’t go back to my apartment after it happened.”

Sherlock nodded as he opened his door, an emotion akin to understanding written in his eyes. It was obvious by the look on John’s face that Sherlock very rarely showed understanding for another person, something that warmed Spencer’s heart. Maybe his mother had had the right idea, asking him to come to England. “Deductions are a better addiction than any drug. They exercise the mind rather than dulling it. It may have taken me years to come to that conclusion, but it may also be helpful to you. Come, cousin. I want to see exactly how brilliant a relative of mine who isn’t Mycroft can be. This should be an interesting experiment.”

Behind Sherlock and Spencer, John was mumbling something about geniuses and their ability to read other people. Spencer frowned in confusion, wondering what John meant, but he shrugged it off. He’d seen a multitude of reactions to his ability to profile other people. John’s bemused mumbling was hardly the worst. In comparison to some reactions he’d had, it was actually quite pleasant, hardly something to get worked up about. He was sure that there would be plenty of less pleasant reactions to him being here with his cousin.

* * *

 

“I feel I should warn you,” John started as they followed Sherlock to the cordoned off building, “The majority of NSY’s detectives can’t stand Sherlock. Lestrade is the only one who willingly calls him in on cases, and his sergeants hate it.” He watched the back of the man in front of them before glancing over at Spencer and speaking again. “You probably won’t get the best welcome, especially after they find out you’re related to Sherlock. Half the forensics squad is convinced that Sherlock is possessed by a malevolent spirit of a criminal the yard arrested in the past. He’s an acquired taste.”

Spencer gave a quiet snort before adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He should have left the bag back in his hotel room. It was getting cumbersome to carry around as he followed his cousin through London. He hadn’t expected to be dragged about when he’d left the hotel that morning. “I’ve been working with the FBI since I was 23 years old, Dr Watson. I’ve had to put up with my fair share of local officers who didn’t like it when outsiders stepped in on their territory. I was attending college classes when I was thirteen, and doing better than students ten years my senior. This is hardly the first time I’ve been put in a situation where people might feel bitter about my presence. I’m sure I’ll be able to handle myself.”      

“Oi freak! Who’s the new guy? You aren’t supposed to bring Watson in on a scene, what makes you think Lestrade will let you bring someone else?” The woman bearing down on the three men stopped just inside the police tape and glared at Sherlock before turning her attention to Spencer, her entire body tense for a fight. She gave him a once over before dismissing him as non-threatening. “Don’t tell me he’s managed to drag another person into the twisted games he plays.” She sneered at Sherlock, her glare dripping with malice. “A piece of advice, turn around and walk away before the freak puts your life at risk like he does with everyone else.”

Spencer shot a quick glance at Sherlock, noting the disdain and amusement warring in his eyes before giving the woman in front of him his complete attention. It was obvious to him that this woman was jealous of Sherlock, that she resented the abilities he had to solve mysteries that left NSY stumped. If Spencer cared to guess, he would say that Sherlock had probably humiliated her in one way or another. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his badge and flashed it at her, mentally donning the same attitude he had when local PD didn’t take his credentials seriously because of his age. “SSA Dr Spencer Reid. I’m here in London visiting my cousin and he asked for my professional opinion on this case. Is that a problem Sergeant-”

“Donovan. Sally Donovan. Ignore her, cousin. She’s hardly worth speaking to. She doesn’t know any more about the case than Lestrade does, and she probably knows far less. There is no point in wasting time on those who lack the ability to observe anything useful for themselves. Now come! We have a body to see and a case to solve.” Sherlock lifted the police tape and waited for Spencer and John to duck under it before shooting a glare at Donovan. “Lestrade knows he’s here, so don’t bother complaining. He’s FBI, consider it a professional consult. He does this kind of thing all the time. Call someone, if you have to, just leave us alone. We have a job to do.” With that, he spun around and practically ran into the building that was marked off, a spring in his step. Spencer followed behind at a leisurely pace, taking time to observe the scene before entering the apartment where the body lie in wait.

As Spencer took in the scene, Sherlock moved to crouch over the body, ignoring the presence of the forensics team. He reached out with one hand, pulling forceps out of his sleeve and lifting up the edge of the body’s coat. Humming, he stood up, whirring to face Lestrade where the older man had been watching him work. “You said there was a note. Show me where. If your incompetent forensics team moved it, I will walk away. They aren’t to move anything until I look at it, you know that. Oh, and Donovan is probably going to come complain about my cousin’s presence. Call Mycroft. I’m sure he’s already cleared it with his people. I’m positive that you’ll find that my cousin has been given permission to be on any cases that I might work without any special invitation. Please inform the plebeians that you work with that he is not encroaching on your jurisdiction or whatever nonsense they might accuse him of. You know I would never bring someone else to a scene if I did not believe that they could be useful to me.”

* * *

 

Spencer tuned out Lestrade’s response to Sherlock, focusing instead on the body and the room as a whole. He pulled a notebook out of his bag and started to write down everything that seemed out of place. He tilted his head, trying to figure out what was familiar about the crime scene. He’d seen something similar somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place it. In the background, he could hear Lestrade on the phone, presumably confirming that his elder cousin had done something to allow him to work on this case. Before Sherlock could ask for his observations, his attention snapped up from his notebook and he turned to face the inspector. “The killer was raised in a severely disciplined monastic community. Look at the marks on the ground, here.” He knelt down and pointed to a few scuff marks on the floor. “These are marks of a whip. I’ve seen them before. We worked a case where we thought that people were being brutally tortured before they died, but it turned out that they were whipping themselves, for penance. They died of blood loss from the beatings. This victim doesn’t have the same callouses on his hands that would indicate that he was whipping himself, so the unsub must have done it before he died.”

“You’re telling me that a monk did this?” The incredulous look on Lestrade’s face made Sherlock beam at his cousin as he stalked to the other side of the room, leaning against the wall to watch Spencer at work. “Am I supposed to go to all of the monasteries in the country and question a bunch of monks then? I don’t think my supervisors will like it if I do that.”

“No. He’s not a monk. Where is that note you mentioned?” Spencer moved over to Sherlock, bending over the evidence bag in his cousin’s hand as he read the note. “I said he was raised in a monastic community, but that doesn’t mean he’s a monk. He was probably an orphan, left on the steps of a church. Not from England, I think. Lashing isn’t a common punishment in monasteries in England. More likely he’s from France.” He bit his lip, straightening up and staring off into the distance. “The note is an explanation of why he’s doing this, he’s punishing these people. He left the note because he’s frustrated that his message hasn’t spread, that it isn’t getting the publicity he thinks it deserves. He wants you to know that you missed something.”

“What am I supposed to get from ‘And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.’?”

“It’s a verse. Revelations 13:1. How many other bodies have you had?” Spencer left Sherlock’s side, pacing as he collected his thoughts. “The unsub is just getting started. He sees each of these victims as someone who has done something deserving of the most severe punishments. I’d have to see pictures of the other victims, but I suspect that the stitching is a way of indicating the offense that they’ve committed. By stitching this man’s mouth, along with the verse mentioning blasphemy, he’s stating that the victim committed the sin of blasphemy.” He pulled out his phone, glancing up for a second. “I need to see the pictures of the other bodies and scenes. I have a theory that I want to test out. Does Sherlock have copies of the files?”

 Lestrade looked flabbergasted for a second before he shook his head. “You really are related to Sherlock. I’ve never met anyone else who can come to a conclusion that quickly. I’ll send copies of the other case files to Baker Street so that you and Sherlock can both see them. Do you need anything else?”

“No. I’m sure that Sherlock has anything that I might need. I can’t give you a profile until I see the other murders, but after I have some time to look at them, I should be able to get you a profile pretty quickly.” Turning to Sherlock, Spencer shoved his notebook back into his bag. “What next?”

Sherlock grinned and jumped away from the wall, grabbing Spencer’s arm. “Now we go home and use all the clues that Lestrade has given us, combined with our genius and we find him his serial killer. Come, cousin. There is so much for us to do.”

Spencer followed Sherlock away from the crime scene, mind whirring with information that may be relevant to the case. As they ducked back under the police tape, he heard Donovan mutter, “I can’t believe there’s two of them.”

* * *

“Sherlock, how many times have I told you that you cannot cover our flat with case files?” John lifted a stack of papers off of the counter and moved them to the table, mumbling about geniuses that couldn’t clean up after themselves. His hand fell into a sticky spot and he cursed under his breath, hastily wiping the mystery spill up with a towel he kept on the counter. “What were you doing in here? There’s a mess everywhere. Is my skin going to bubble from this like last time? I told you to keep your chemicals out of the kitchen. I’m making tea. Anyone else fancy a cup?”

 “Could I get some coffee, please?” Spencer stood staring at the wall over the couch, a map in front of him and pins in his hand. He had carefully marked each of the crime scenes, pinning pictures of the victims and his own hastily written notes in each place. His hair had gone from neatly combed to haphazardly tangled from him running his hand through it and tugging on it occasionally. “With sugar please, a lot of sugar.”

Sherlock just hummed, pouring over a book on the appropriate absolutions for sin, according to different select orders relating to the Catholic Church. He tossed the book to the side and grabbed another one, raising one hand to wave it in John’s direction, too absorbed in his task to bother with speaking. Shaking his head, John turned back to the kitchen to finish making the tea and some coffee for Spencer. He made a cup for Sherlock even though the man hadn’t asked for it, pouring almost as much sugar in it as he did into Spencer’s coffee.

 “You know, most people at least stop to eat when they’re working. It’s called a lunch break. Maybe you’ve heard of them? Read about them somewhere maybe?”

 “Eating is overrated. You know that my body is transport, John. I’m far too busy right now to even contemplate eating. There are murders to be solved, John. Murders!” Sherlock tossed the book onto a pile at his feet, leaping up and circling Spencer, absentmindedly leaning over his cousin’s shoulder as he too stared at the map. For two men who usually avoided physical contact, it was an odd sight, but neither cousin took the time to even think about what they were doing, instead focusing on the map. “Are you seeing anything specific?”

“I’m not sure. The UnSub doesn’t appear to care about the neighbourhood. Look, they’re all over the place. I need to focus more on the method of death.” Spencer spun out of Sherlock’s reach, grabbing the autopsy photos and pinning them up next to the map. “I haven’t seen anything quite like this before. It’s extraordinary. Whoever this UnSub is, he’s studied religion extensively, probably when he was growing up, but more so now that he’s an adult. There are some small bits of evidence here that suggest exorcisms were being performed before the victims were murdered. We need to call Lestrade and let him know what’s going on. This UnSub isn’t a part of the clergy, but he’ll still be involved in the church, probably extensively. Someone knows him, knows who he is, they just don’t realize it.”

 John handed Spencer his coffee cup, staring at the pictures on the wall and frowning in confusion. “What is it you see? I don’t see anything that makes any sense. Of course, not much that Sherlock finds makes sense to me until he takes the time to explain it. Care to explain it while we eat? I can order in something. Genius can’t operate if your bodies shut down, you know.”

“On the contrary, I am capable of operating with a completely sound mind for up to four days without food so long as I drink water and coffee. I have done it on several occasions.” Spencer sipped at the coffee for a second, turning around and grabbing a notebook off of Sherlock’s chair. His eyes were alight with ideas and he sat down on the floor, scribbling in the notebook for a second before he grabbed the coffee cup from the floor in front of him and finished it off. “It’s a common misconception that human being are incapable of training their bodies to endure extreme circumstances. I had developed my ability to go days without food by the time I was sixteen. Really, so long as I have some form of carbohydrate and water, I am fine. Did you know that Barry Horne went 68 days without food in 1998? He had previously completed two different hunger strikes. There have been people who have claimed to go for over 60 years without food, using meditation techniques to discipline themselves. Really, missing a few meals because of a case is nothing to be concerned about.”

Sherlock turned to John with a smug look on his face before he left the room, headed off to his bedroom to grab something or other. John just shook his head and sat down in his chair, upsetting the box that Sherlock had placed there earlier. “Of course you would have to give him facts to back up his claims that he doesn’t need to eat. Someone save me from the lot of you geniuses. So the absolute stubborn refusal to acknowledge that physical health is as important as mental health is hereditary. Good to know. Mycroft isn’t around often enough for me to get a feel for how stubborn he is when it comes to eating, although I highly doubt that Mycroft allows himself to get so wrapped up in something that he forgets to eat.”

“Mycroft likes food all too much, John. You know that. Thus his ever-expanding waistline and his constant need for a diet. He indulges far more than he should in the sugary treats that are absolute rubbish for his figure. Surely even you have noticed that his suits have expanded in the past year.” Sherlock handed Spencer a directory of all the churches in London, perching on the back of his chair and grabbing his violin.  Tuning the instrument, he shot a glare over at John before placing it against his shoulder and lifting the bow up. “Now be quiet, I need to think. Order your food if you must, but for goodness sake, be quiet.”

Spencer snorted quietly as John huffed and Sherlock started playing a melancholy tune on the violin. Focusing back on his case files, Spencer tuned out the sound of the music, losing himself in the notes and pictures. He barely registered the sound of John placing a call to a Chinese restaurant down the street, instead pushing himself deep into his mind where there was nothing but blessed silence and fact to help him solve this case.

All three men went about their evening in a semblance of peace, none of them aware (on the conscious level) of the threat that loomed just around the corner. As they set about solving the case, any other dangers were pushed aside, dismissed as being unimportant. In a supposedly empty flat nearby, a solitary figure watched as Spencer and Sherlock shot ideas back and forth, an almost predatory grin on his face. As he settled back to enjoy the show, he couldn’t help but speak aloud.

“This game just got much more interesting.”

* * *

 

 “Agent Hotchner? Thank you for taking the time to answer my call. My name is James Moriarty. I’m calling in regards to one Doctor Spencer Reid. I believe he is one of your agents? It would appear that he has come to England recently, on vacation. No, no, he isn’t in any trouble, not at the moment. I’m calling because it would appear that Doctor Reid has captured the attention of one of London’s most dangerous men, and I felt it pertinent to warn you should your agent require your assistance at some point. Well, Agent Hotchner, what have you heard about Sherlock Holmes?”


End file.
